"On our way to dinner at a local pizzeria, my girlfriend was driving her giant lead sled, a 1960 Chevy Biscayne. I don’t remember why I was not driving, I rarely allow myself to be a passenger. As we approached a freeway overpass, I started getting a real bad feeling something terrible was about to happen. I’ve had these feelings before and learned the hard way to trust the unknown I could only 'feel' over all logical evidence available in any given moment. The feeling became stronger the closer we got to the intersection. The hairs on my arm and neck were standing up and I began feeling trapped in the car, even though everything appeared just fine in the world. I finally had to do something, so I told her quite sharply to slow down. There was no traffic light or even a stop sign ahead for us, the traffic exiting the freeway had stop signs before turning onto our road. She took her foot off the gas, coasting while becoming very confused about my sudden worrying. She looked down at the speedometer, and started to dismiss me, claiming she wasn’t even doing the 45 mph limit. By now my nerves are screaming at me, still for no good reason, so I reached across, grabbed her arm and shouted 'STOP NOW!'

She obeyed immediately. I’m sure I simply scared her into complying, but she stomped on the brake pedal as we began under the freeway bridge. Before we even came to a stop, a huge Lincoln came screaming into view from the right side behind the bridge. The car ran the stop sign on two wheels, cutting across in front of us and missed getting t-boned by inches. It was immediately clear that had we not began slowing when we did, he would have hit square into my passenger side door. Hard. At his speed, probably fatally! My girlfriend looked at me, spooked in disbelief, and asked me 'How did you know?'

To this day, I still don't know."